


Rubbing In

by Pyrasaur



Category: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney
Genre: Comfort/Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Rival Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-02
Updated: 2008-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrasaur/pseuds/Pyrasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It began with something about loneliness, with one of you muttering grateful, it doesn't matter. You both know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rubbing In

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a kinkmeme prompt: _I've had the song Michael by Franz Ferdinand stuck in my head for days. For some reason I went to Wiki about the song and saw this:_ Also, "stubble on my sticky lips" is occasionally replaced with "stubble on my sticky hips." _Now I'd like hobo!Phoenix giving a blowjob and the receiver being completely into the feel of that stubble. I'd prefer it if the other guy isn't Edgeworth; you'll get mega awesome cookie bonus points if it's Godot, fresh out of prison._

     Many things are cold: arctic snow, autumn wind, revenge, the truth. The world isn't cold, as you're escourted from prison. The world simply doesn't care. Your suitcases rattle half-empty and there's no red for you, just grey.

     Wright answers the door, looking seven years older. Stale memory hangs in the hall, it hums between you. Until you say his name. There's a smirk on his face he must have borrowed, and a hollowness behind his eyes you'd know anywhere: you live and breathe it.

     You've brought coffee because no one else makes it right. It's just bitter enough for right now, rich steam scenting this little reunion, mug giving Wright something to curl his hands around. The two of you talk. Just the facts, the world in artful shards. Wright looks at you like he's trying to remember.

     It began with something about loneliness, with one of you muttering grateful, it doesn't matter. You both know. A click as Wright sets his mug down, and then he comes to you slowly, lifting his hands like drawing them from behind armour. You knock his hat onto the floor -- the button clatters, life moves on -- and snag a handful of his limp spikes. He's here and warm, taking his place over you, stubble-edged mouth seeking your throat. Grown up. You tip your head back, and grin.

     Wandering hands are the best way to learn, yours under the sweatshirt to find him lean, his picking at buttons like they're locks. Wright sinks to his knees, he sighs damp and relieved as your black shirttails land on bare skin. You've wanted this for a long time, not in your mind but in your bones. He takes you with a sure hand, stroking, finding you hard as that stubble blazes down over your hipbone. He wouldn't shy away. Men don't do that.

     This should be a victory, you wonder, watching his lips part around your cock. But it's nothing but what it is, and that's two men chasing away the world. Wright's eyes drift up to you, lazily, and he bobs back down; you lift one thigh to feel his cheek rasp against it. Here's a handful of his hair you hadn't noticed you'd taken. You groan, slow in your throat, as he works slick and faster and here's what you need.

     You'll remember him swallowing, the wet sound, the slide of his adam's apple under that rough stubble. Your thigh burns as he lifts his head, a shade of red you don't need to see: you can feel it. Wright's eyes lid; he asks a smarmy question. You imagine him on his back, writhing. You drag him closer to suck hard on his throat, to listen to that smirk vanishing. Nothing cold here. But you knew there wouldn't be.

 


End file.
